


Scratch That Itch

by ThereWasStillTime



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23385145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereWasStillTime/pseuds/ThereWasStillTime
Summary: Robin has an itch and needs Strike to scratch it.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 11
Kudos: 33
Collections: The Cormoran Strike Fest of Firsts





	Scratch That Itch

“What’s wrong?” Strike murmured, not wanting to move from the comfort of his sleepy slouch in the passenger seat of the Land Rover. 

Robin was rubbing her back against the driver’s seat like a deranged cat, her pretty face tensed in a grimace. 

He sat up quickly, now worried, “Are you hurt?”

Robin shook herself, keeping both hands on the wheel, hoping it would help her to ignore the unreachable itch where she seemed to be allergic to her new bra’s fastening. Well, I’ll never buy a bra from the internet again, she thought. 

While keeping an eye on Robin, Strike relaxed his body back into his seat, concerned she was getting tired. It had been a long drive up the A1 because of all the road works. 

“Fuck!” Robin exclaimed and began to almost bounce up and down in the chair, her arms and body stiff.

“Robin, if this is another panic attack I think we need to -”

“I’m not going to have a panic attack,” she snapped before starting to vigorously rub herself against the seat back from side to side, “It’s this bloody bra!”

Strike's eyes widened.

“It’s making my back itch and I can’t reach it,” her hand arched over her shoulder as if to prove it to him.

He nodded slowly, then shook his head, “Can we turn onto the hard shoulder?” he asked, peering ahead, trying to see where the road works might end. Although he realised, as he found the vanishing point of the temporary barriers and orange and white cones, they were interminable.

“There’s no hard shoulder for twenty more miles,” Robin almost whimpered, “You’re going to have to help,” She curved her shoulder inwards and angled herself away from him, “Please. Scratch my back now!”

Gingerly, Strike held his hand towards her, hesitating an inch away before placing just the tips of his fingers on the back of her shoulder and feebly rubbing them across her coat from side to side. 

“That’s no use!” Robin was struggling to keep the annoyance out of her voice at the return of Strike’s caution as soon as she needed anything resembling unguarded intimacy from him, “My coat is too thick. You need to help me get it off,” it sounded less of a request and more of an order. 

“Okay, how?” Strike sounded surprisingly helpless.

Robin expertly moved the car into the slow lane. Then she held out her left arm. Her knuckles on her right hand going white from gripping the steering wheel, as the heavy vehicle fought to go its own way. Strike quickly grabbed the edge of her coat and pulled it down her arm. Robin struggled out of the padded fabric until it was free. 

“What about the other arm?” Strike again held his hands up, inches away from her body, unsure where best to rest them in order to free her from the rest of her coat.

“Forget it, just itch my back,” Robin demanded, putting both hands back on the wheel, “Near the fastening of my… bra strap,”

Strike saw her cheeks were tinged pink, “Okay,” The quicker he got it over with the better for both of them, so he slipped his hand under her coat. Again he softly rubbed his fingertips against the fabric of her top, feeling her smooth skin and then her rigid backbone.

“A little more to the right,” she almost hissed, “Can you use your nails? Harder! Higher!” 

At that his face broke into a sardonic grin, his eyebrow raised. 

“That’s it, right there,” she encouraged.

Strike began to become suspicious that Robin was doing this to him on purpose. He couldn’t help himself though and a snigger escaped him as he did what she asked, Robin found herself bursting into a fit of giggles.

“Stop it! You’re making me laugh too much and driving is difficult enough already,” Robin admonished him, “Also, it’s moving now. Towards you. No! I said 'towards' you! Lower. Lower!” her voice seemed to become raspier.

Strike shifted in his chair as he began to feel a different brand of uncomfortable sensations due to the effect she was having on him.

“Wait!” Robin’s left hand flew to rest on his thigh and she squeezed.

That certainly didn’t help things and Strike was thankful that he still had the other side of his thick coat draped over his lap.

“Don’t stop yet!” Robin pushed her back against his hand as nails dug into her soft flesh, “Keep going, it’s nearly gone. Ahhh!”

Strike’s hand stilled at the sound of her sigh, he looked at her face and noticed her features were more reposed, “Is that it? Better?” He poised his hand flat against the soft skin of her back. The familiar smell of her powdery rose perfume filling his head. His thumb, almost acting with a will of its own, grazed the smooth curve in a touch much more intimate than he had intended.

“Mmm…thanks,” Robin smiled, her face turning redder, “Can you help me with the rest of my coat? You know, in case it happens again. It must be my flatmate's washing powder that I used,” 

“Okay, what shall I do?” Strike missed the touch of her as soon as he moved his hand out from her jacket.

“I think you need to pull the coat out from…under my bum,” she said briskly, “In three, I’ll try to lift myself up and you can pull it out, you might need to put your right arm around me as well. You know to get both sides at the same time,” 

The edge of Strike’s tongue rested between his lips as it always did when he concentrated and he slipped his arm around her, feeling for her waist before grabbing handfuls of coat, his fingertips brushing the curve of her bottom.

“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” He said, close to her ear. Her hair stroked his face. His breath tickled her throat.

She couldn’t help herself and she giggled, “On one…two…three,” as she lifted herself up. 

A few embarrassing moments passed where Strike accidentally groped Robin's bum, as he pulled handfuls of fabric from where it was trapped under the back of the tops of her thighs, “Right, that’s it!” he told her.

Robin almost fell back onto the seat, trying to ignore the tingling sensation from the closeness of his body to hers.

“How are we going to do the arm?” Strike mused, looking her up and down, assessing the situation. His eyes coming to rest on her face as she looked ahead, fully putting her trust in him to get the job done, “I know, sit forward!” he told her and bunched her coat up against the driver door. He pushed her back with his palm lightly against her breast bone prompting Robin to draw in a sharp breath and hold it. Then he pulled the fabric round to the front, “Right, I'm going to pull it off your shoulder...now,”

Robin hurriedly helped by pulling her arm out of the sleeve, again leaving only one hand on the wheel. If Strike had been with anyone else, he would have been having a panic attack of his own, simply over that fact. As he helped her pull away from the sleeve, the back of his hand brushed what was probably her nipple and he thought he might have a panic attack for an entirely different reason. He bunched up her padded coat before chucking it in the back. Robin rearranged her seatbelt and settled herself back into the seat. She exhaled a small, relieved sigh.

Strike on the other hand felt far from relaxed, “Where are the toffees? I bloody deserve one!”


End file.
